He loves me not
by I.am.j0hnlocked
Summary: Johnlock drama, Sherlock confesses his feelings to John, but John is under the impression that he isn't gay. The two play a game of jealousy, and there is eventual johnlock.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Johnlock fic, might be some drama to begin with, but eventual John/Sherlock and fluff. John thinks he's not gay. HA! Ya right John, you're not fooling anyone, especially not yourself. Please review, enjoy! xx**

_John, get dinner for yourself. We have no food here. -SH_

_Did you check the refrigerator Sherlock? That's where most people keep their food. -JW_

_Yes, it got... contaminated. My experiment had unexpected results. -SH_

_You are so impossible. Any particular takeaway you want? -JW_

_You chose, not eating tonight. -SH_

_What are you working on? You should eat. -JW_

_Not working, just not eating tonight. -SH_

_Sherlock, I'm going to bring home take away for us. You need to eat, you haven't eaten all day yesterday or today, doctors orders. -JW_

John didn't get a reply for several minutes. He rolled his eyes at Sherlock's stubbornness as he stepped into Speedy's. He went ahead and ordered a large sandwich with some sort of meat for them to split. He hadn't really looked at the menu, he just told the waiter to surprise him. John sat down at the booth by the window and ordered a beer while he waited for his food. He was staring absentmindedly out the window when a soft hand tapped his arm. Turning, he saw a pretty blonde woman. "I think you dropped this." She said, holding his wallet out to him.

"Oh! Thank you so much!" He exclaimed with graduate. As she was turning away to leave, he touched her wrist. "Um, hey, can I, uh, buy you a drink to, um, show my thanks?" he stuttered. The woman blushed and nodded as she took a seat across from him. He ordered another beer for her. Her name was Mary, she had short blond hair and sparkling blue eyes. John felt his heart nearly skip a beat when she smiled at him, she got little smile lines when she gave him shy smirks from across the table and she had a tinkling musical laugh. Johns takeaway order came too soon and he began to regret that he had insisted on making Sherlock eat tonight. He stood up to pay when his order came, and Mary stood as well. "Well... It's been very nice talking to you," John said, " you know, tomorrow I don't have work," Johns phone beeped loudly in his pocket. "Oh, um, sorry," he said, ignoring the text, "Maybe we could go out and get some coffee or something?" Mary smiled, nodding as he spoke.

"I'd really like that."

"Great! Well, uh, how about tomoro-" His phone beeped again. "Um, I was saying, tomorrow, we can go-" another beep, "to this coffee shop-" two in a row this time, "that I know, down on-" there was one last beep, "Brooks Boulevard, and Tenth-" then his phone started ringing. John closed his eyes and breathed deep in frustration, predicting it was Sherlock. It was always Sherlock who ruined his love life.

"You better get that. It could be an emergency." Mary said softly, looking slightly disappointed. John knew very well it was not, and was probably just Sherlock trying to get him to buy more milk. He shoved his hand into to his pocket, and brought out the ringing mobile. He punched the answer button with a little more force than necessary. Turning slightly away from Mary so she didn't have to hear his conversation, he answered,

"What do you want Sherlock?" he growled into the receiver.

"Text me." He said and hung up. John stood in disbelief at the man's rudeness. He shot an apologetic glance at Mary before opening the six new texts from Sherlock, his hand shook slightly with fury. They read:

_John, come home, where are you? -SH_

_John, Mycroft tracked you, come upstairs, I need help. -SH_

_If a person overdoses from Adderall, will the hallucinations drive them to commit suicide or accidental self inflicted harm or potential death? Or __will the cardiovascular complications kill them first? -SH_

_You can bring your food, I'll eat if you want, just come back to the flat. -SH_

_John... Mycroft says you're having a drink with a woman. I thought tonight we were having dinner together. -SH_

_Please, come home John. I need you -SH_

'What the hell were those last two texts about?' John thought, what was it that Sherlock needed so badly? Surely it was just another case where he need to think out loud and have a head nod obediently to help him think. He had even said he wasn't going to eat. John had assumed he was going to eat by himself after Sherlock took one bite of bread then locked himself in his room.

"Is everything alright?" Mary asked tentatively.

"Oh! Yes, yes, everything's fine. Look, I'm so sorry about this, my friend is an absolute git."

"It's fine.. So, do you still want to do coffee tomorrow?"

John thought about the last two texts. Maybe something _was_ actually wrong. Why would Sherlock write that? Unless he did it to do precisely this- manipulate John into coming home so he could show off to him. Mary took the hesitation as a no. "It's alright, I understand." She said.

"No!" John burst out, "No, it's not that, I'd love to do coffee, but something may have just come up..."

"Okay, how about we say coffee at noon, Brooks Boulevard and Tenth, if you show up, it's a date, if not, well it certainly was nice meeting you." She proposed. She smiled warmly at him, her eyes understanding and genuine.

"Perfect, yes. That sounds great. I will really try to come." John, gave her a thankful smile. She nodded and quietly left the restaurant.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: This is mostly a chapter for John to yell and vent, and then feel bad about hurting Sherlock's feelings. XP I decided to incorporate my other story '****The Fall'**** into this, you can read the original, which is from Mycroft's POV, but this chapter will have the same event from Sherlock's POV. This story will get pretty sad and depressing but don't worry! Johnlock will be coming eventually! I promise! Thanks so much for reading, please feel free to leave a review! xx**

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Chapter 2

John stomped up the stairs to the flat. On the way home, he had let his annoyance had simmer and it had grown into a fiery rage. He flung open the door and stomped his way to the kitchen. He knew he was being unreasonable and immature, but he was _pissed _and he figured if Sherlock got to act this way 24/7, why couldn't he act that way for one night. He slammed the take away bag down on the counter.

"SHERLOCK!" He roared. "WHAT THE HELL IS YOUR PROBLEM!" He stomped over to Sherlock's room, banging on the door. "YOU COME OUT HERE RIGHT NOW! You can't stand to lose my attention for two minutes, can you?! _Noo, _are you really that self absorbed that you need my simple mind to grovel your presence for your every waking hour?!" John was shouting at the door, the veins in his neck strained from the effort. "Sherlock!" The man's silence was infuriating. "Answer me!" Still no response. "I can't believe you had your brother spy on me! You are so immature! Why can't you just grow up and act _normal _for once!? You need to learn to mind your own business! All you ever do is interfere with people's live with no respect to them or their privacy! Unlike you Sherlock, _human beings_, have emotions! Can't you just _try_ once in a while? Maybe do it for me? Your friend?! Might I venture to add, your _best_ friend." John felt the anger seeping out the more he yelled. He was less angry than he was when first returning to the flat, but he had to keep yelling because he had felt the dam break and there was no going back. He had to get everything off his chest. "Sherlock! I haven't been laid for eight months Sherlock! Eight months! Do you know why? It's because every single time I find a nice, intelligent, single woman who shows the slightest amount of interest in me, _you _show up! 'Oh! John! Is this your new love interest of the week?'" John mocked, "'Let me step all over this relationship and then drag you off to a crime scene to shoot at your new girlfriend, see if she still likes you then!'" John shouted.

John paused, drained from all the yelling. The anger was gone, and now he just felt hollow. In a quieter, defeated voice, he said, "Is your ego really so important to you that you would push away the only people who care about you? Friendships aren't a one way street Sherlock, you have to try too." He still received no answer. He knocked softly on the door. "Sherlock." He said, "Please. Why can't you just let me be happy?" He leaned against the door, letting his head fall back against the wood. "Why?" He whispered. He stood there for several minutes, resting, not expecting an answer. His phone beeped in his pocket. Reaching in he saw a text from Sherlock. "No, if you have something to say, say it to my face." John reprimanded. There was a long pause, and his phone beeped again. He opened the texts with an irritated sigh.

_You aren't happy?_

Sherlock didn't bother with his typical signature.

_John, please try to understand what I am going to tell you, and forgive me. _

John felt a panic grip his gut, suddenly, he regretted yelling so mercilessly at Sherlock. Maybe he had upset the detective more than he thought he would have or even could. He had been rather harsh and didn't really mean most of the things he said.

"What's this about?" He asked nervously called over his shoulder. "Sherlock," He said, gently tapping the door with the back of his head. He was still leaning against the locked door, fighting the conflicting feelings of guilt for yelling and annoyance at Sherlock for being able to manipulate the situation so that he was the one giving _John_ the silent treatment. He almost fell over when the door opened. John caught himself then whirled around. To his great surprise, Sherlock was standing in the doorway, dressed in his flannel pajama pants, a thin tee-shirt and a light silk bathrobe. His dark hair was messy and disheveled and his eyes were rimmed with red. To his even greater surprise, the consulting detective had a single tear, streaming down his porcelain cheek.

"John." Whispered a hoarse voice, "I have something to tell you." Sherlock reached out and grasped Johns hands in his own. He gently tugged him into the room, shutting the door behind them, he motioned for John to sit down. John perched uncomfortably on the edge of Sherlock's bed, he glanced around the small room, never having actually been inside. It was very impersonal and bland, there was a periodic table neatly framed on the wall, a few small picture frames on the bureau. But upon closer inspection, John saw that the factory sample image was still set in the frame, a picture perfect world that Sherlock may or may not have intentionally kept.

The detective nervously wrung his hands as he paced back and forth. John wanted to get up and reassure and comfort Sherlock, but in his agitated state, he wasn't sure if that would be helpful. "John." Sherlock said, abruptly halting his pacing and pivoting towards him. "John, I..." Sherlock shook his head and continued to pace, babbling incoherently under his breath. John was bewildered and starting to worry, Sherlock was getting extremely distressed and he was starting to look physically sick. Sherlock's hands trembled and he clasped them tightly together to keep them from shaking. He was wan and ashen, his skin didn't have it's usual pale radiance, instead, it was coated with a light sheen of sweat. As Sherlock paced by, John reached out and took Sherlock's hand in his.

"Sherlock, stop" He pleaded, "please, just tell me what's wrong." Sherlock stopped pacing and shuddered at the touch of John's hand, momentarily closing his eyes. When his eyes opened again, the silvery blue orbs were filled with tears that threatened to spill. It was like looking into a crystal clear lake at night, seeing the reflection of the moon, but so much more depth and dark mystery beneath. The detective's eyes were filled with such sadness and misery and wistful sort of yearning, that John felt his breath catch in his throat. Sherlock gazed at John for several long moments before clearing his throat.

He took a deep breath and looked John in the eyes as he began. "Let me tell you a story about a young boy who fell"


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Ok! It's finally up! Sorry it took so long and that it's kinda short. I've been super busy with finals and I've had so many other fanfic ideas sitting on the back burner that I had to start a few of them. Keep an eye out for those I may be posting a new story soon. I'd love to hear what you guys think about my story, so please review! Don't forget to check out my tumblr and follow me (My URL is on my profile page). I might start posting excerpts of new chapters on my tumblr to get feedback about my ideas- I've been having a bit of writers block with this story. Enjoy! xx**

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"Growing up, I idolized Mycroft, as little brothers do. He is seven years my elder, and my youth was spent trying to live up to be everything he was. Of course, being the older brother, Mycroft despised me and the my efforts to ultimately become him. Though, after several years, he stopped trying to prevent me from imitating him, and instead, entertained himself by setting my efforts up to fail.

One day, we were out on the grounds of our estate. He climbed this old oak tree, and he got to the top, he sat in this crooked branch that formed a seat of sorts. When he came back down he declared that there was a throne at the top, and whoever sat on 'the throne', was the king of the world. Naturally, I wanted to be the king of the world just like Mycroft and sit in that throne at the top of a tree. Regardless of the fact I knew it was simply illogical that a chair could be at the top of a tree, if Mycroft had told me two plus two equals five, I would have believed him." Sherlock let out a humorless laugh.

"Even as a five year old I knew it was irrational for me to able to climb with the same skill as a twelve year old, nevertheless, I started to climb. As a young child, I was abnormally... Intelligent.. And the other children knew it too, I was ruthlessly ostracized for my superior brilliance. I had always known I was superior, and seen them as insignificant, meaningless, therefore their words had no effect on me. And although I don't believe in such ludicrous notions as fate and religion, I saw myself as a fallen angel. One whose strength was being tested to return to eternal glory. I felt as though I was making my ascent to the heavens, every moment, inching further and further from the infinite sentence of damnation that human existence was."

Sherlock was sitting on the overturned laundry bin across from John. His eyes were trained on John, studying him carefully.

"It was because of the euphoria of the moment, that I faltered. I wasn't paying attention. Even as a five year old, I knew which branches would be too thin to bear my weight. The moment I transferred my weight onto the branch that could support me, I felt my world freeze as I seemed to hover in the air, mid fall. The image in my head of that throne at the top of the tree, the redemption for my existence in this cruel world, vanished as pure animal instinct took over. It was the first time I could remember being completely out of control. I was falling, I genuinely thought I was going to die. I very well could have. The leaves and branches tore at my face and clothes. Like a thousand hands and fingernails, grabbing, hitting, scratching. They put a physical sensation to match the words that had been thrown at me my whole life, and I realized just how much it hurt." Sherlock's face was turned down in a sneer, as he recalled the time that he was first exposed to the cruel ordinariness of the world. "I remember catching a branch and holding on. For a fraction of a second, I believed I would be okay, holding on by my fingertips for dear life. Yet my momentum pulled me down once again, I found I was not exempt from the laws of gravity. I hit several more branches as I fell, and they caught me like punches to the stomach, and with one final blow, I landed hard on the ground."

His eyes were glazed over as he recalled the memory. John wished, not for the first time, that the great detective did not have such a sharp photographic memory, because he could see the pain, illuminated against his pale blue irises as the memories danced a burning trail across his guarded eyes. There was a new tone of resentment and bitterness in his voice when he spoke again.

"The air was knocked out of me and I panicked, my body starving for oxygen and my spasming lungs not responding. The cold that settled in my heart however, was not from the lack of air, nor the numbing pain that spread through every inch of my body. It was the cold disappointment in my brothers eyes. He looked at me and his dark eyes told me that I was never fit to sit in that throne, that I never deserved to wear a crown. I could no longer trust his manipulative words, but those vicious eyes staring down at me didn't show anything but truth. That was when I learned to lock away my feelings, I learned that caring was not an advantage; it was a chemical defect found on the losing side."

Sherlock glanced at John, who was listening with a stony face. He trembled with anger at Mycroft, even though what he had done to Sherlock was years ago, John knew that even today, Mycroft would not hesitate to take advantage of Sherlock. It infuriated that someone would hurt Sherlock like that, that fall could have killed him.

"John, I believed Mycroft. He had always told me I wasn't good enough. I learned to value the pure cold logic that I should have listened to in the first place. Feelings and personal opinion became irrelevant in the face hard facts. But when I met you, something inside broke. Or maybe it was fixed. Either way John, I find when I am around you, I feel irrationally elated."

He looked down, hiding behind his dark curls. "John," he said into his lap. "Sentiment was something I swore I would never involve myself in. I locked my feelings away in the corner forever. There they have sat, gathering dust. But when I met you, that door has been reopened, and those feelings have been broken out and they're eating me alive.

"Each week you bring home a new girl. When I see you smile at her, when your laugh with her and tuck her hair behind her ear, and kiss her; my heart shatters into a million pieces. Then when you break it off, my heart mends itself, mutilated and misshapen, but mended nevertheless, in blind hope that you did it for me. Then, the next girl moves in to take the last ones place, and my heart shatters again, into a million more pieces than the previous time."

John had never seen such raw emotion from the great detective. He felt the blood draining from his face as he realized what Sherlock was implying. John stood up suddenly, shaking his head in disbelief. His facial expression portrayed the dread for the words he knew were coming. His weathered features were pulled pinched and taut in his terrified anticipation of the declaration that would tear their friendship apart. As he watched his friend carefully, John's breath caught in his throat. Even though the sadness on his face masked the fear, John saw the sincerity and tenderness in Sherlock that he had never known existed.

"This," Sherlock paused, taking a shaky breath "is why I don't let my emotions show. Why I cut people off before they get too close. You fill the hole I never knew I had in my life, and i'm afraid John. I'm afraid that now that you know my feelings for you, you will leave, and that gaping hole will slowly tear and stretch until I fall apart." Sherlock's soft cerulean irises eyes bored into John's stunningly clear blue ones a hundred different emotions flashing across the watery orbs. "John, I love you." He said the phrase tentatively, turning the syllables over as if he didn't trust himself to say these three unfamiliar words.

John swayed where he stood, looking slightly ill. "Sherlock... You can't expect me to... I don't... I'm not... I- I need some air." he sputtered. He stumbled out of the room and Sherlock heard the door to the flat slam shut. Sherlock buried his face in his trembling hands and choked out a strangled sob.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Wow. Ok, I'm so sorry this took so long to post. This chapter was really fighting me. It is told alternating from John to Sherlock's POVs. I'm sorry if you find any spelling mistakes or grammar issues, I'll look over it again later with a fresh mind to try to rectify those. Any comments or feed back is greatly appreciated. Huge shout out and thank you to the lovely MoonSparkel, for helping me edit and brainstorm for this chapter. And huge thank you to all those who have read, reviewed, followed, and favorited, your support means a lot. Enjoy xx**

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John left 221 B in a hurry. Rushing down the street in no particular direction, his cheeks burned with embarrassment and confusion, and his heart sunk to his churning stomach. Nausea wormed itself into a knot in his gut and, he wanted to scream, and puke and rip out his hair, _and go back into the flat and kiss Sherlock_, added a small voice in the back of his mind. Horrified, he almost tripped over his own feet at the thought. "No, no no I do not!" He snarled under his breath, getting frightened stares from evening shoppers. He smiled apologetically at them, but it came out as a tortured grimace, and they quickly swerved to avoid him.

John had been walking for almost an hour, his mind was no longer swimming with agitation and it was getting late. He had unwound and had cleared his head, but he still wasn't ready to go back to the flat and face Sherlock. In his rush to leave, he had forgotten his coat, which had his wallet in it. Sighing, he fished his phone out of his trouser pocket and dialed Lestrade's number.

Ten minutes later, Lestrade's car pulled up and John was thankful to get into the warm vehicle. They drove in silence for several minutes before Lestrade spoke. "What did he do this time?" He asked tiredly. "Fingers in your bed? Eyeballs in your tea? Did he set fire to the kitchen again?"

"I don't really want to talk about it right now." John answered flatly, all he wanted was a stiff drink. Lestrade gave him a puzzled stare, John was usually more than willing to rant shamelessly about the irritating tendencies of his flatmate.  
"Alright," He said, then almost as though he were reading John's mind, he said, "How about we go get you a drink?"

"God yes." John answered.

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Sherlock stared in shock at the indentation in the bed where John had sat. How could he have been so stupid? This wasn't supposed to happen! John should be here, with him, the only anger should have been John's playful annoyance at Sherlock for not confessing his love sooner. Sherlock quickly rubbed the angry tears from his face. Armed again with the hard, emotionless expression he was so good at wearing, and began to scour the flat for a cigarette.

After ten minutes of searching, he threw his skull across the room when he discovered his last hidden emergency pack was no longer in the cranial cavity. It hit the wall with a loud thunk then rolled across the floor, leering up at him with an indifferent grin. He shot his beloved skull loathing glare and turned to the bookshelf in his desperate search for his fix. He violently pulled books off the shelves, they fell to the floor in a flurry of black and white. Their pages like the fragile wings of white monarch butterflies. They piled on the floor with a cloud of dust, their delicate yellowed pages bent and torn. Once he had pulled the last books off the shelves, he let out an agonized growl of frustration.

Sherlock needed an outlet, badly. He mentally cursed John for finding all of his hidden stashes of cigarettes and throwing them out. He stood at the desk, staring up at the cow skull on the wall, wishing for some consolation. Then, enraged at the skull's lack of response, he swept all the clutter off the desk in one swoop. The avalanche of junk hit the floor and several mugs shattered, and random trinkets skidded across the floor; John's laptop hit the floor with a loud crack. Papers floated to the floor, their quiet whispers the only sound in the flat other than Sherlock's harsh breathing. Sherlock racked his brain for any other places he might have a pack stored away. He opened all the drawers in the desk and instead of cigarettes, he found John's gun. He paced back and forth a few times before collapsing into his well worn armchair. He turned the gun over in his hands before raising it and without looking, began to shoot the mocking yellow smiley face on the wall.

"Sherlock Holmes!" Mrs. Hudson's voice yelled from downstairs. Sherlock heard her pounding up the stairs. "Are you putting holes in my wall?" She shrieked. She burst into the room and took in the scene. He let his hand fall and rolled his eyes, sighing in exasperation. "Sherlock! Look at the mess you've made." She said sharply. "Who do you expect to clean this up dearie? Remember, I'm not your housekeeper." She said, even though she bent down and began to stack the papers back onto the desk. She stopped though and looked at Sherlock, confused by his lack of response. She then noticed John's absence and with a look of understanding she put a hand on his shoulder, "Did you and John have another domestic?" She chided. Sherlock rolled away from her hand, then stood up, towering over Mrs. Hudson. "Why don't you give me the gun dearie." Mrs. Hudson said nervously, gently easing the gun from Sherlock's hand and putting it back in it's drawer. "There you go, why don't you go sit down, I'll make you a cuppa tea." She said, walking over to the kitchen.

"No, no, Mrs. Hudson, i'm perfectly fine." He snapped and followed her into the kitchen and began to shoo her out. "Really, I'm fine, I don't need anything." He steered her to the door.

"Oh! Sherlo-" the flustered woman started as she stepped into the hall.

"Goodbye Mrs. Hudson" He interrupted, and closed the door. He closed his eyes, listening to the loud silence that buzzed throughout the empty flat. Sherlock had never understood emotions before, he knew he had upset John but he wasn't sure how he was supposed to fix it. He didn't know if he could fix it, or if he wanted to. He wasn't even exactly sure what it was that needed fixing. Settling down into his arm chair once more, he pulled out his phone. As he debated whether to text John, he scrolled through his messages; there were several new cases, all of which he deemed mundane and facile. He scrolled past them, and was about to switch tabs to text John when a particular name caught his eye. The message read:

_Sherlock old friend! It's been too long. I've been abroad since Uni doing humanitarian work and I've just returned. The first thing I see upon my return is nothing other than your face plastered over the front pages of the papers! Consulting Detective! So you took my advice and put your incredible gift to work doing some good. That's absolutely grand._

_I saw that you've taken up a flatmate by the name of John Watson. Nice looking bloke, isn't he? I took the liberty of researching his blog, and what a life you two lead! Oh, do you remember the University days, Sherlock? When we were so young and blithe and free? I thought, and apparently incorrectly so, that those days were behind you. A certain someone had me under the impression that 'detective work was for amateurs', and I know better than anyone, Sherlock Holmes is no amateur. I was deluded to believe your massive intellect and superiority would be wasted and that the great Sherlock Holmes' would be reduced to nothing but a school dropout and a drug addict. How wrong I was..._

_My my, how I've missed you old friend. It is so good to see you are prospering and happy. Well, I say happy.. Nonetheless, I would love to catch up with you. Maybe have drinks and dinner sometime, I want to hear more about what you've been up to these last couple of years. Your charming Mr. Watson has such a lovely blog, his case write ups are superb, however, I'd love to hear about them from you. I doubt any ordinary person can capture the events so meticulously and accurately as you. Besides, I need you to catch a thief for me. He stole something of mine several years ago and I've just been reminded that he still has it. You can contact me at the same number as before, I trust you still remember it? See you at dinner. xo_

_-The one and only,_

_Victor Trevor_

Sherlock reread the message several times. Even if he didn't know emotions, he knew when someone was trying to make an advance on him and Victor had made his desires more than painfully clear. He looked back at his previous messages to John, "_John, please try to understand what I am going to tell you, and forgive me_". He cringed at the stupidity of the text and deleted the conversation. He opened a new message, and scrolled through his few contacts, his finger hovering over Johns name before scrolling past it to type in Victors number from memory. He began his new message and tapped out a quick reply to Victors letter.

_I have dinner ready, the address is 221 B Baker street._

_-SH_

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John and Greg roared with drunken laughter at a story Lestrade had just told. Sobering slightly, John looked him straight in the eye, "'Sherlock told me a story tonight," John slurred, he pushed away his three empty pint glasses and empty shot glass so he could lean across the table towards Lestrade. "It was bout how Mycroft is a git and there was a mean tree. Or somethin' like that.. The bloody idiot!" He yelled. Lestrade cheered and raised his half filled glass, John brought up his and they tapped the cups together, then downed their fourth drink. "You know what he said next?" John asked.

"What did the bastard say?"

"He ges all serious, and goes, Jawn, I love youu" John drawled. Lestrade eyebrows scrunched up in confusion, then, as though having an epiphany, they straightened out, and his eyes widened.

"Ya know," Greg whispered, "I think that bloody idiot loves you". There was a pause, then the two broke out in hysterical laughter. Wiping tears away from his eyes, Greg slide into the booth next to John, "You know what elllse I think?"

"Hmmm?" John grunted.

"I think you," Lestrade said, prodding a finger into John's chest, "Love him too" prodding the finger with each word. They both quieted, staring into their empty glasses.

John's brow knitted in confusion, "but... I'm not gay.." He said, "am I?" He looked at Lestrade questioningly.

"Mate," Lestrade guffawed, and took a swig of the fresh pint that had been placed in front of him by the bartender, "I wouldn't know gay iff it hit me in the face." He wrapped his arm around John's shoulders. "But I think, even if itz not kissy kiss sorta love," he sputtered, laughing at the ridiculous phrase, "itz still love. Cos, if ya didn't love 'im why else would you still be livin with that git? I think, you two, love eash other very very mutch."

"Oh. Okay." John said, looking unsure but nodding anyways. "Ok, that's good."

Lestrade smirked at John's skeptical answer. "Do you love him?"

John's face fell, "I-I.. I dunno." He slurred. "Sometimes I think I love 'im, and sometimes I don't. I dunno, sometimes he thinks he's the bloody Queen and then I just wanna kill him. Then sumetimes, 'e's so mind blowingly, breathtakingly, astonsishingly spec-tac-u-laur," John drunkenly sounded out, "it's impossible not to love 'im." John turned towards the detective inspector, his unfocused stare gazing through him. The blissful, intoxicated laughter was gone, and the mood had darkened considerably. "Christ" John sighed, exhaling his sour breath into Lestrade's face. Lestrade finished off the dregs of his drink then sat up.

"Not that i'm an expert or anything," Lestrade said, "But that sounds like love to me. Come on, letz go home John." He said, standing unsteadily and grabbing his coat. He helped John up and the two of them staggered out of the bar.

Ten minutes later, the two clambered up the stairs to Lestrade's small apartment. Lestrade fumbled with the key for almost two minutes before finally swinging open the creaky door. They fell into the cluttered flat, John nearly tripped over a pair of shoes that had been thrown across the door mat. "Welcome to muh humble abodee." Lestrade slurred, "you can take the couch ovur there," He said, pointing to the sagging burgundy satee. "Ima go to bed, there are blankets in the ottoman, g'nigh." He said, "Dream happy dreams 'bout 'Erlock. Tha' bastard loves ya, don forget it, 'e really loves ya." Lestrade said, and retreated to his bedroom. John nodded, and blundered over to the couch. He pulled out a scratchy plaid blanket from the ottoman, and settled down onto the couch, not even bothering to take his shoes off. He drifted off to a restless sleep in a matter of seconds.

* * *

Sherlock sprang up when he heard a sharp rap on the door. The door swung open and there stood Victor. He was a tall, broad shouldered, tanned man. "Ah! Sherlock!" he exclaimed, gathering Sherlock in a close hug. His deep, hearty voice rumbled through Sherlocks torso, "you look marvelous old friend!" Victor said, taking a step back to look Sherlock up and down. "fantastic!" he murmured hungrily. He held up a bottle of wine, "I brought drinks!" he said, a broad smile dancing across his handsome face. His straight teeth were blindingly white against his sun kissed skin, and the gold flecks in his emerald green eyes flashed a bright contrast against his dark espresso, almost black hair.

Sherlock gave a stiff smile, in return. "Yes, yes, come in Victor, it's been a while. How are you?"

"Absolutely wonderful, especially now that I've reconnected with you." He said, beaming and almost radiating cheeriness.

"Please, have a seat" Sherlock said, motioning to the table, "Ah, I apologize for the mess, my flatmate is rather unorganized." Sherlock said, addressing the chaotic state of the room. He moved several test tubes and experiments to clear a space on the cluttered table so they could sit. Victor smiled at Sherlock fondly, knowing fully that it was in fact Sherlocks mess and not Johns. He set John's take out bag on the counter, opening it up to find a large pastrami sandwich and a Caesar salad side. He smiled, knowing John had intended to get Sherlock to eat by splitting the sandwich with him. He set out two plates and cut the sandwich while Victor lit two candles for the table. He felt a pang of sadness that it was Victor who he was here sharing the sandwich with and not John. Victor seemed to be the polar opposite of John; he was tall and lean, yet simultaneously muscular and build, his dark green eyes radiated confidence and authority rather than kindness and compassion. Faint stubble shadowed his jaw and his shiny dark hair was slicked back, highlighting his handsome and angular features, much different than John's light, downy hair that sat in a casual halo over his sweet, clean shaven face.

Victor spoke animatedly throughout the meal, recalling his tales of his time abroad, and prompting Sherlock for more details from his new life. Sherlock was quiet for most of the dinner, only speaking to ask an occasional question, or to give a few brief details of his life. Victor questioned Sherlock about his job, about his new flatmate, about how he came to stay in London, more about his new flatmate; all to which Sherlock gave vague and ambiguous answers. By the time they were done eating, Victor gave Sherlock a slightly rejected look, he reached across the table and took Sherlock's hand in his own. "Sherlock, have I said something to upset you? The entire evening you have been so disengaged. I realize you were never one to socialize, yet I sense there is something more. If I offended you in anyway, I sincerely apologize, please forgive me dear friend." He said, his eyes desperately flickering over Sherlock's unchanged face, trying to read his reaction.

"Victor, I am the one who should apologize," Sherlock sighed, "I have been an appallingly rude host, haven't I? Please, it isn't you. Earlier this evening, my flatmate and I, well, we had a bit of a falling out, and I'm still unsure about how to react." Sherlock explained, retracting his hand from Victor's as he spoke. Victor nodded understandingly, dropping the subject. Then he stood and moved over to the sitting room. He opened the violin case that was tucked besides the sofa, and gingerly took out the instrument, handling it like it was a sacred and fragile artifact.

"Will you play for me?" Victor asked, "The song you wrote for me in Uni?" He said, a soft smile playing at the corners of his lips.

Sherlock gave the faintest, ghost of a genuine smile in return, "Always" He responded in a hushed tone. Sherlock took his violin and raised it to his chin, then, his nimble fingers began to dance across the instrument and the bow tenderly caressed the strings. A beautiful melody filled the flat, the notes were drawn out in wavering precision. The song expressed love and tenderness, yet there was an undercurrent of sadness. The piece was played from memory, the composition a turbulent sea; its fluctuating notes revealing tender emotion and enveloping the flat in a dreamlike trance, reminiscing on all that was past and forgotten. Sherlock played, swaying gently to the music and leaning into the music, letting it pull him in every direction it deemed fit to take him. After several minutes, the song began to slow, and it came to an end on a long, flourishing note. Sherlock opened his eyes and found Victor standing inches away from him, they stared into each others eyes, icy silver-blue piercing into equally fierce blazing emerald green.

"Even more beautiful than I remembered." Victor murmured, not specifying whether he was referring to Sherlock, or his song. "About the case I mentioned in my letter.." He murmered as he leaned even closer, their bodies brushed against each other and they could feel the other's hot breath against their own lips. Victor brushed a strong, callused hand against Sherlock's smooth cheek. "Sherlock catch the thief that stole my heart." He breathed. He slid the hand from his cheek to cup the back of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock stared at Victor in wonder, he marveled at the diversity in the human race, how different he was from John. Victor gave a soft grin, and pulled him closer still. He looked deep into Sherlock's eyes before he ghosted his soft lips against Sherlock's and his eyes flickered closed. Sherlock hesitated for a fraction of a second before his blue eyes fluttered shut, and he kissed back.

* * *

**A/N: Ahh! As a Johnlock shipper, this last bit was so hard to write, omg, I almost deleted it. Don't worry! Things will work out for our boys eventually. Please leave a review, I'd love to get your feedback! Also, don't be afraid to PM me any suggestions you might have for the next chapter telling me things you'd like to see happen or thing you want to see more of, etc. Thanks! xx**

**P.S- If you'd like to hear what I imagined Victors song would sound like, I put up a link on my tumblr (My URL is on my profile page)**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Ok, this is an awful chapter, I apologize profusely. I had such a stressful hard week, but schools over! YAY! It's summer! So, that should mean that I would have more time to write and update, but unfortunately I'm going away for two weeks, and I'm leaving tomorrow. :/ Sorry! So this means no updates for as least two weeks, that's why I just wanted to get this chapter up before I left. It's also really late right now so if i'm rambling and not making sense, once again, my apologies. This chapter was written by a teenager suffering from high stress levels and sleep deprivation, so sorry for any mistakes.**

**I'm considering finding a beta reader for either this story or some of my others, so if you are interested in beta-ing(? idk if that's the phrase) any of my stories, please don't be afraid to PM me or contact me on tumblr. Even if you don't want to beta or aren't eligible, I will always take your suggestions into consideration if you PM me. ****Alright, enough with my ramblings, here's the chapter 5. Enjoy. xx**

* * *

Sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating the channel of dust motes and shining a red haze in Johns closed eyes. John groaned as he came into consciousness. The first thing he was aware of was his pounding headache and parched throat. He opened his sleep swollen eyes, then shut them again when he was caught by the full morning glare of the shining sun. Rolling over on the couch, he became aware of the ache in his neck and back. _Not so young anymore_, he thought to himself, apparently sleeping on the couch was not a wise choice at his age. He tried to drift back to sleep, but after several long minutes of uncomfortable shifting, the ache in his back or throat became too much to bare. He sat up and instantly a wave of nausea swept through his body. The bile rose in his throat, hot and acidic, burning with the leftover taste of alcohol. He heard shuffling and looked over to see Greg moving around the small kitchen. His short hair was sticking up and in a disarray of scraggly bristles. He looked over at John, all blurry eyed, and nodded, then winced at his headache. He continued to quietly rummage around in the kitchen as he prepared tea and cooked a few eggs for breakfast.

After breakfast and showers, the two were feeling slightly more refreshed and clear headed. Their hangovers had been reduced to little more than slight throbbing and John had composed himself from last night and was ready to go back to the flat. "Thanks so much for letting me stay, I really appreciate it. It's nice to get away from the flat and... from Sherlock, every now and then." He said. Lestrade nodded understandingly.

"Anytime. You're a good man, John. Don't you give up on that Sherlock," Lestrade said, giving John a stern look, "he's impossible, but he really loves you John. He really does; anyone can see it, you just weren't looking." He said softly. They were quiet for several seconds, then the moment was over, and John looked up.

"Well, thanks again for having me." John said, as they walked towards the door.

"No problem John,"

"Oy, here's some money for the cab ride back." Lestrade said, shoving a few pounds into John's hand.

"Greg, I-"

"No no, you have to. Consider it payment for you two love birds resolving your drama fast eh? I don't want you two having any teenage girl drama on a crime scene." Lestrade joked, giving John a crooked smirk. John chuckled and nodded. He thanked Lestrade one more time then left, still smiling to himself.

* * *

The entire cab ride back, anticipation shifted in John's stomach. The small butterflies in his gut flapped and twisted, in a excited sort of way. He realized how much he was looking forward to seeing Sherlock and wrapping him in a tight hug. He closed his eyes, imagining the warmth of Sherlock's arms, he pictured his head, nestled perfectly in Sherlock's neck. The scent of Sherlock's faint cologne lacing between their intertwined bodies. The close proximity of their bodies syncing their breathing and bringing their hearts to beat as one. Then, he would look up, tilting his head slightly to see into Sherlock's eyes, and he would marvel at what unique color they would be that day. Perhaps a silver blue, maybe a emerald green, or possibly an incredible, burning golden. And if Sherlock kissed him, he wouldn't object, he couldn't. Because how could he refuse such perfectly formed, succulent lips? Such passion and precision and focus they would deliver. So no, John would not oppose.

* * *

The cab pulled up to 221 Baker street, and he paid the driver quickly. He opened the door with shaking hands then bounded up the steps, wearing a large smile. He flung open the door and just as he was about to announce "_Honey, I'm hoomee!" _in a Hollywood fashion, he saw the living room. The whole room was a disaster, papers were strewn all over the floor, his laptop was lying upside down on the floor, his armchair was overturned, and Sherlock's mantelpiece skull was rolled in the corner of the room with several of it's teeth knocked out. His eyes swept the room, and the scene really began to sink in. What he saw on the couch hit him like a punch in the gut. Sherlock was laying on the couch, shirtless, his smooth, pale chest exposed. A dark haired young man was straddled on top of him, also shirtless. The young man was bent down and busy kissing the milky skin of Sherlock's neck and shoulders, while Sherlock stared at the ceiling with a bored expression. As the stranger moved, his biceps flexed and rippled, his bare back was strong and defined, and he was evenly tanned as though he had just come back from holiday. The smile melted off John's face as though it were candle wax, dripping from the heat of the stranger's presence.

John tensed his shoulders, instantly resuming stiff military posture. He felt the happiness and excitement he had felt just moments ago, leave him like the pressure released from a soda can. Suddenly, his hangover seem to return, and his head throbbed and pounded. He pointedly looked away before loudly clearing his voice from the doorway. The young man jumped slightly and looked up, a radiant smile broke across his face and he jumped off of Sherlock. "Ah! You must be Mr. Watson! I've heard so much about you!" He exclaimed, enthusiastically.

"Dr. Watson, if you don't mind." John replied with a touch of disdain. He was rather annoyed that the man didn't even have the courtesy to look embarrassed that he had just walked in on him with his best friend. "And you are...?"

"_Dr._ Watson," Trevor laughed, ignoring John's question. "Sherlock! You never told me your dear John was a _doctor_!" Sherlock ignored them and continued to stare at the ceiling. He shrugged and turned back to John, "Victor Trevor," The young man said, "I'm an old friend of Sherlock's," he explained, thrusting out a large hand. Sherlock rolled off the couch and lumbered towards them, he was acting as though John were the biggest inconvenience to his life. John looked uncertainly between the two of them, they both towered a good three or four inches above John. Then he focused his attention back to the stranger, gingerly shaking his waiting hand. Victor looked back at Sherlock.

"We go way back to uni. Isn't that right, love?" Victor asked fondly, throwing an arm around Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock rolled his eyes, not agreeing, but not breaking away from his arm either. Victor grinned down at John, his perfect teeth bared in a menacing smirk, his muscular arm was possessively wrapped around Sherlock's thin frame. Everything from his posture to his appearance spoke "_competition"_ loud and clear, but behind that John could clearly read the subtext that said "_back off, you're too late, he's mine now"_.

John felt hot fiery rage and jealousy burning in his throat. He had only just met the man, but he hated Victor. He hated his chestnut colored, lush hair; he despised his clear bright, eyes; his rich tenor and patronizing voice. He loathed his powerful, masculine body, that so perfectly complemented Sherlock's thin, lanky one; he absolutely _abhorred_ the fact that together, Sherlock and Victor looked more dashing and perfect than John and Sherlock ever would. But what he hated the most was that Sherlock didn't hate Victor. Sherlock looked at him with cool awareness and respect; then when he looked at John, the walls were back up and _John_ was the one receiving the cold nonchalance. That look shook John to the bone, he felt as though he had just walked through a blizzard, found a warm home with the door wide open, only to have it slammed right in his face. It tore at his heart, and it clenched and ached in his chest.

John didn't trust himself to speak, so instead he just curtly nodded once. He pursed his lips and walked over to grab his wallet from the kitchen counter. He walked back over to the doorway and cleared his throat, the whole time two pairs of eyes followed him. "Um," he cleared his throat again, "Right then... I, uh, well, I'll, leave you to it?" He said awkwardly.

"John," Victor said, rushing forward, "It really was so great to meet you," he gushed, positively beaming with triumph from having won the silent rivalry. "I wish we could have chatted longer, but I'm sure I'll be around quite a bit, and we'll have more of a chance to get to know each other." He said.

"Yes, I'm sure." John said stiffly. He turned his gaze to Sherlock, meeting his eyes briefly before the consultant detective's currently steel grey eyes flickered away and back to Victor's face. "See you later Sherlock." John said, almost desperately, trying to entice a reaction. He received no acknowledgement. His eyes flickered between the two before he nodded once more, gave a tight, fake smile, and left the flat.

For the second time in less than twenty four hours, John rushed down the street with confused emotions and not going in any particular direction. He walked for almost thirty minutes, he took random turns, not caring where he ended up. His feet were beginning to form blisters and he was slightly out of breath when he finally stopped. He looked up at the street sign and realized he knew where he was. This was tenth street, not far from his surgery. _Oh! Tenth street!_ He thought, he quickly checked his watch and saw that it was 11:55. He still had time to go to that little coffee shop he had told Mary to meet him at! That felt like it was ages ago.

A bell chimed when he opened the door to the cozy little shop. He was instantly bombarded with the warm aroma of coffee and pastries, the warm shop was a welcome change from the bitter London cold. His breath caught in his throat when he saw her. She was sitting in the corner, staring out the window, a dreamy expression on her face and far away eyes. She was wearing a vermilion pink pea coat and her short blonde hair was pulled back in a delicate style with an elegant silver pin. Her slender hands grasped a steaming cup of tea, and she sipped it slowly as she watched an invisible scene out the window in the sky. She was absolutely breathtaking and John practically tripped over his feet walking towards her.

She looked up when she saw him, relief flooding her face. "John!" She said. "I'm so glad you came! I was beginning to think you were going to stand me up." She said shyly.

John looked her straight in the eye, "Never" He said.

They had coffee, and Mary told him about her job as a nurse and John about his job at the surgery. He told her about his time in Afghanistan, that he was an army surgeon. He told her briefly about life with Sherlock as a flatmate, and she shared stories of her past roommates. They talked for hours, about nothing in particular, John just trying to make the other smile. She had that kind of smile that defined happiness. It defied the laws of the universe that stated energy cannot be created or destroyed because John was absolutely certain that energy and light was emanating from her being. He was sure that when she smiled, people halfway across the world could feel the warmth. He told her about the comic strip series he had collected since he was a kid. He recited a few from heart, and she laughed, a light, wonderful laugh; one that filled up John's chest with tingling happiness. Finally, after two cups of tea each, and a shared biscuit, they stood to pay the check.

"This was really great." Mary said.

"Yeah, it really was, wasn't it?" John agreed. He smiled and he felt a pang of longing in his chest, though he wasn't quite sure what for. "You know, my flat is a minutes away, if you wanted, I could show you some of my comics series." He suggested timidly. Her eyes lit up and she nodded. John paid the check and they left, the jingling bell ringing out behind them.

When they arrived at the flat, John was surprised to find it empty- and cleaned. There was a small flicker of emotion in John's chest, one he couldn't quite place. It was a mix between sadness and happiness, and regret and love. He shook it off and turned back towards Mary. She took a seat and he went to get his collection from his room. As he turned into the living room again, Mary shot him a terrified look and then he heard a deep voice, "Who the hell are you?" John nearly dropped the box he was carrying. He had never heard such venom and hatred in Sherlock's voice, and so very rarely did he hear Sherlock swear. They must have just been quietly in Sherlock's room. The thought made his blood boil. He set his box down with an angry smack and went to stand protectively over Mary, giving Sherlock and Victor a challenging stare. Victor was standing close to Sherlock, their arms touching, as though he couldn't be left alone for one moment.

"This is Mary." John said gruffly.

"Why is she in our flat." Sherlock stated coldly.

"Why is he in our flat?" John shot back heatedly, gesturing to Victor. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, glaring at Mary. His eyes were icicles, piecing into mary's warm friendly eyes, emanating such contempt and disgust that Mary looked away and at the floor.

"I invited Victor. We had dinner. You weren't here." Sherlock answered coolly.

"Well I invited Mary. We had tea." John replied. "We were just going to take my box and leave. So no worries," John sneered, "We'll be out of your way soon. Then you and Victor can continue _shagging_ or whatever the hell you were doing!" John practically yelled.

Sherlock's eyes widened slightly with surprise, "We weren't-"

"Oh Sherlock, don't deny it! There's nothing to be ashamed about!" Victor interrupted. To hear the words out loud was like a punch in the gut. Suddenly the thought of Victor's large hands on Sherlock made John sick. His candy pink lips spreading their sticky sweet venom on Sherlock's body physically repelled him. His hair tickling Sherlock's skin and his hot breath poisoning his lungs. Victor grinned at John like a hyena, his lips pulled back in a sneer; knowing he had beaten John and needed to rub it in a bit more. John grabbed Mary and pulled her up on her feet. He shot Victor a loathing glare before storming out up the flat for the third time.


End file.
